Monday, 8 September 2008

It Still Hurts

Sputnik in my hair
Lost in some twilight zone
You stand up-over everywhere
A dish, a satellite for our home

Paradise within you blossoms
A garden filled with passion
Rising above all mental flotsam
Intelligence, in which you splash on

Then, dropped a bomb
Mostly by some design
But all your fans have not gone
We await, in hope, for some sign

Sikozu on my mind
What more secrets did you hold?
We may never learn more of your kind
Unless some other media were to unfold

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